Oh, so much to show him. She took him to the offices of Stratford Shipping, praying that no one would recognize her, and led him into the wrought-iron lift, and pressed the button for the roof.
"Wires and pulleys," she explained.
"Britannia," he whispered as they looked out on the rooftops of London; as they listened to the scream of the factory whistles, to the jangling of the tram bells far below. "America, Julie." He turned to her excitedly, clasping her shoulders, his fingers surprisingly gentle. "How many days by mechanical ship to America?"
"Ten days, I believe. One could be in Egypt in less time than that. A passage to Alexandria is six days."
Why had she said those words? His face darkened ever so slightly. "Alexandria," he whispered, pronouncing it as she had. "Alexandria still stands?"
She led him to the lift. So much more to see. She explained there was still an Athens, still a Damascus, still an Antioch. And Rome, of course there was Rome.
A wild idea had come to her. Hailing a hansom, she told the driver: "Madame Tussaud's."
All those costumed figures in the wax museum. Hastily she explained what it was, a panorama of history. She would show him American Indians, she would show him Genghis Khan or Attila the Hun--creatures who had brought terror to Europe after Rome fell.
She could not envision the mosaic of facts being created for him. His equanimity amazed her more and more.
But they had been in Madame Tussaud's only a few moments when she realized her error. His composure crumbled at the first sight of Roman soldiers. He recognized the figure of Julius Caesar instantly. And then in disbelief he stared at the Egyptian Cleopatra, a wax doll which bore no resemblance to the bust he had cherished or the coins he still possessed. But her identity was unmistakable as she reclined on her gilded couch, the snake coiled in her hands, its fangs just beneath her breast. The stiff figure of Mark Antony stood behind her, a characterless man in Roman military dress.
Ramses' face coloured. There was something savage in his eyes as he turned to Julie, then looked back at the printed labels beneath this display.
Why hadn't she realized these figures would be here? Why hadn't she remembered? She caught his hand as he backed away from the glass. He turned around, almost stumbling into a couple who blocked his path. The man said something threatening, but Ramses didn't seem to hear it. He was hurrying towards the exit. She ran after him.
He appeared calmer when she reached the street. He was scanning the traffic. He reached out for her hand without looking at her, and together they proceeded slowly until he stopped to watch the workmen on a construction sight. The great cement mixer was churning. The sound of hammering echoed against distant walls.
A faint bitter smile passed over Ramses' lips. Julie hailed a passing hansom.
"Where shall we go now?" she asked. "Tell me what you want to see."
He was staring at a beggar woman, a ragged figure in broken-down shoes who extended her hand now as she passed.
"The poor," he said, glancing at the woman. "Why are the poor still here?"
They rode silently through cobblestone streets. Strings of laundry closed out the damp gray sky. The smoke of cooking fires rose in the alleys. Barefoot children with soiled faces turned to watch them pass.
"But cannot all this wealth help these people? They are as poor as the peasants of my land."
"Some things don't change with time," Julie said.
"And your father? He was a rich man?"
She nodded. "He built a great shipping company--ships that carry merchandise from India and Egypt to England and America. Ships that circle the world."
"For this wealth, Henry tried to kill you, as he killed your father in the tomb."
Julie stared straight forward. It seemed the words would strip away every vestige of control she had. This day, this adventure, it had carried her to the heights, and now she felt herself descending. Henry killed Father. It was near impossible for her to speak.
Ramses took her hand in his.
"There should have been enough wealth for all of us," she said, her voice strained. "Enough for me, for Henry, for Henry's father."
"Yet your father dug in Egypt for treasure."
"No, not for treasure!" She looked at him sharply. "He dug to find evidence of the past. Your writings meant more to him than the rings on your fingers. The story you told, that was his treasure. That and the painted coffin because it was a pure thing, from your time."
"Archaeology," Ramses said.
"Yes." She smiled in spite of herself. "My father was not a robber of tombs."